My bookshelf had been ransacked. Files scattered everywhere. The antique ornaments I’d bought at auctions and the heirloom gifts from my parents—manhandled and some already shattered.
I forced myself to stay calm and turned off their loud music.
They all turned to look at me, annoyed.
“Who are you?” I asked coldly. “What are you doing in my house?”
They exchanged confused glances. “Your house? You mean Lana’s house?”
“We’re here for the wedding. Who the hell are you?” the other added.
I almost choked on my own fury. “Micah and Lana… are holding a wedding here?!”
Then someone pointed at me. “I know her. Guys, she’s that mistress!”
Before I could say anything, someone flung a cup of milk tea in my face.
“You’ve got some nerve showing up here. Trying to ruin the wedding, you homewrecker?”
More people joined in—slapping, kicking, screaming at me.
I fought back, but there were too many.
I was shoved to the ground.
They got braver, crueler.
Someone hit me. Someone tried to rip my clothes. Others livestreamed the whole thing, wanting the whole internet to “see what a mistress looks like.”
I covered my face, but they grabbed my hands and yanked them away.
They pinned my limbs down and hung a pair of heels around my neck. Then they spat in my face, mocking me, calling me bitch, slut and other names.
I sobbed, helpless and humiliated, as they used my pain for entertainment.
Until suddenly—someone shouted, “The groom’s here!”
They backed off and rushed to the door.
I scrambled to my feet, barely able to stand.
And there they were—Micah in a sharp suit, Lana in a wedding gown.
Micah saw me, disheveled and broken. He hesitated, then walked over.
Leaning in, he whispered, “I thought you left. This is not a real wedding. We’re just putting on a show… for the kid.”
My voice was cold. “Oh, I see. So the bruises on my face and the shattered antiques—those are all just props for your little show?”
Micah frowned, clearly not happy with my reaction.
Before he could say anything, their friends swarmed around us.
“Micah, this mistress has some nerve showing up here like this,” one of them sneered. “You should slap her—make it up to Lana.”
Micah didn’t move.
But Lana was staring at him expectantly.
Micah turned to me instead. “Just leave, okay?”
“Why should I?” I asked coldly. “And mistress? Tell me, Micah—am I a mistress?”